


Orpheus, or, Going Under the Waters

by die_traumerei



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, Can be read as gen or slash, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Gen, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 04:24:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6838942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is revived in Wakanda, and then what happens next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orpheus, or, Going Under the Waters

**Author's Note:**

> This is much shorter than the story deserves, but it seems right, at least for just now. I wanted to at least touch on the ways that Bucky choosing to be frozen, and the procedure itself, was so different from what Hydra did to him.
> 
> Also, you totally can't tell that I don't really like writing very long descriptions of pain and suffering. Totally can't tell at all.
> 
> (I sort of deliberately wrote the relationship ambiguously; they could be friends, or lovers, or friends who will be lovers.)
> 
> The title in, in part, a reference to going under the waters, which is (sometimes literally, usually figuratively) part of a number of African syncretic religious rituals.

Warm. And dark.

It had never been like this before. It could be like this? Like waking up early, before the sun was up?

Had he ever woken up with his head so clear before?

He blinked his eyes, adjusting quickly to the dim room, and took a deep breath, almost a gasp. The air was conditioned, cooled or warmed to ideal temperature, but there was the taste of acacia underneath it all that meant he was still in Wakanda.

He was lying down; that was new. And there was--

A blanket. Scratchy wool, but heavy on his body. Like the blankets when he was a little kid.

He raised his hand and touched the edge of it, roughly finished; he could smell the wool now.

“Bucky?”

A soft voice, female, with steel underneath it. Not Romanoff, but like her. Like the way she talked when she was testing the waters.

(He did remember her. More than a little bit.)

He cleared his throat, and licked his lips. Dryness – oh, that was the same. It was almost comforting, in a way.

“Do you want something to drink?” It wasn't an accent so much as a way of speaking. Oxbridge education, maybe; it wasn't unusual to pick up the accent there, with the cadence behind it that spoke to a first language not English. If not there, than intended to sound that way.

He licked his lips again. “Please,” he offered, and there was an arm around his shoulders, lifting him, and a straw at his lips. Water, cool but not cold. Good. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” She lowered him back onto the bed, and either the lights were coming up, or his vision was adjusting.

“Why am I awake?”

“We can offer you treatment.”

He had honestly expected Steve to wake him up about ten minutes after he'd gone under. (It had felt like falling asleep, it was nice, it was almost _comfortable_ , and he was safe. And the world was safe from him.) God in heaven, it had hurt to leave him. But this was safest, and Steve knew it, and Steve loved him enough to let him rest safe in his tiny glass prison, self-constructed this time.

“How long has it been?” he asked, his voice rough, unused. 

“Eighteen months and four days.”

He swallowed. Steve had lasted, then. If he was still alive “Is...is Steve around?” he asked.

“He is in Wakanda, though not on the premises.”

“Are any of the Avengers here?”

“Commander Wilson is in the complex, and has offered to assist if required.”

He had to smile at that. Of course bird-boy was willing to do anything required. Deprogramming was generally a messy, violent affair. Christ, some people got to have all the fun.

“He was informed a few minutes ago that his assistance would not be required.”

And he – laughed. Crazy fucked-up ancient old Winter Soldier  _laughed_ . “Tell him I'm sorry.”

“I will.” Her voice was a little lower, with warmth and humor.

“What do you need from me?” It would hurt. There was no way it wouldn't hurt. But if it made him safe, got the words out of his head. If it made Steve safe, made Steve's friends safe from him.

(Wanda was just a  _kid_ . What did a kid ever do to deserve this shit?)

“Your agreement to the treatment. The outline of it will be explained to you once you are fully awake. It will take a number of days, and there are psychological and physical components. If you agree, we will begin treatment immediately.”

“Yes,” he said, not even hesitating.

She smiled at him. “Wake up a little more. Drink some water and eat something, and listen to what we will tell you. Then decide if you will say yes.”

“I will,” he said simply, but sat up – under his own power this time – and drank more water. She helped him rise, helped him stand until he was solid. Off-balance, from the arm, but steady. She walked him out of the dim room to a brighter one. Not hospital-bright, though; bright like sun through trees. He ate; the food was bland but good, and there was plenty of it.

A man and woman joined them as he was finishing, and asked if he wanted anything else, if he was warm enough in the light cotton pants, the thin undershirt. (He was, but thanked them very politely.)

They told him what they would do. It was going to hurt, but that was fair. It wasn't going to be terribly quick; also fair. But it would work, and if it didn't, they would freeze him again until they found what would work. (Fairer than he ever deserved.)

He agreed, of course. It made sense. And he supposed he wanted to live in the world. Dying wouldn't bring anyone back; knowing he would never be a puppet again wouldn't either. He would have to fight on Steve's side; start to balance the scales. He was so tired of fighting, but even if he didn't, it would find him. And this time he could be on the side of the good.

He asked for a pen and paper first. He wrote two letters, just in case. One to Steve and one, to be delivered first, to Sam. And thus his affairs were in order. A small life, small things. Words that needed to be said. (Or a quick sketch, in Sam's case.)

What happened over the next nine days (two more than they'd thought) did not need to be revisited, ever. Thrice three days; the magic in that was inevitable. Like going underwater, going to the underworld, for three times three days. Words cascaded over words, commands, the keys to unlock the tangle in his mind, slip the pins into place, tickle them to where they need to be and then unlock the door; that's how you pick a lock, that's how you deprogram the Winter Soldier.

Pain that was unavoidable, but that had no hatred behind it. Hurt to cure; he knew about this technically, but this was in practice. The lack of total hatred of him helped.

Nine days in a place that was dark for three, bright for three, then set to a rhythm that made sense. Three days in water, three with nothing to drink, three where his meals were regular and – hah. Coca-Cola, tasted different, but good. Was there a more American drink, too? Nine days and nights, and at the end of it they read words to him and they were leaves, they were sparkles of light on the water, they meant nothing.

(Homecoming meant something, but not what it had before.)

He took a shower, careful of the stump of vibranium. (That was the next thing they were tackling. He hoped a little bit that he, personally, could be the cause of a couple of PhD's or something similar. A few more strikes in the Good column, there.) He ate something – more of the bland food that was so filling and so good, a little like the food he'd grown up with. He got dressed, all in white again because that's what was there. And he went out into the waiting room where –

Steve had possibly not had a haircut in eighteen months. Not a  _good_ one, certainly. God, that body was  _wasted_ on his neglectful ass, and Bucky was already striding across the room, practically running, until they could wrap around each other. Until they could hug, and Bucky wasn't afraid of being set off by something, some accidental thing. They could hug, Steve could hide his face in Bucky's shoulder, they could press together chest-to-chest.

“I missed you so much,” Steve breathed.

“I was unconscious,” Bucky admitted, and Steve laughed, his whole body shaking with it.

“I love you,” he said.

“I know,” Bucky said, and frowned when Steve started laughing again. “What?”

“I'll show you later.” Steve's hand was huge, cradling the back of his head.

“I love you too,” Bucky offered, and got lifted off of his feet, Steve hugged him so hard. He laughed – how could he not? “Steve, Stevie, I can't breathe.”

“You got the serum, you can hold your breath a few seconds,” Steve said, and Bucky laughed again.

“See how you like it,” he said, once his feet were on the ground, and even one-armed he could still haul Steve up, bending back and making him laugh and yell and grab at Bucky's shoulders.

“I love you,” Bucky said. “I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> There was no good place to put this in the story, but just fyi: Steve's letter was long, spilling out how proud Bucky was of him and how much he loved him. How Steve was his best friend; how Steve had to promise to keep going and remember Bucky, but also live. How Bucky would always love him and, if it was possible to do such a thing, how he would keep an eye on Steve even from beyond death.
> 
> Sam's letter was a drawing of a cartoon cock with wings.
> 
> (Thanks for reading! dietraumerei.tumblr.com)


End file.
